Chapter Text
The forest became lusher the farther they went, and there was a hum in Merlin’s head: life itself. It was overwhelming, and its sharpness stung like a fresh spring, tasted sweet.
They’d dismounted their horses and left them some ways back; the dense, woven carpet of bushes and roots was rough and difficult, and they hadn’t wanted one of their horses to break a leg. But their horses were smart, and came when whistled for. They would be just fine in the grassy pasture cradled beyond the forest.
“We should be careful,” Morgana said, breaking the easy silence. “There are more than Druids that live here.”
Gwen frowned at her.
“Creatures,” Morgana said. “Like… like insects but the size of horses.”
Gwen’s complexion went a bit grey, and Arthur’s sword rang as he drew it. Merlin tensed as they kept walking.
(emrys)
Song-thrushes whistled, and the trees swayed and creaked musically in the breeze; squirrels chittered by, dropping leaves and bushing their tails. Luckily, Merlin heard no scuttling of serkets—Morgana’s insectoid creatures. The hairs on the back of his neck didn’t raise like they did when he was being watched. Despite that, there was something…
(emrys)
A ringing started at the top of his spine, tickling the base of his skull.
“Did anyone hear that?” Merlin said, but was met with blank expressions.
It was the suggestion of a voice—less than sound, more than thought. It had been like this the first time he’d come here, chasing Morgana. The first time he’d found the Druids.
“…What do you hear?” Arthur said.
“It’s like…
(emrys)
…voices.” he said. Arthur puzzled at him like Merlin was losing his mind, but Morgana brightened.
“It’s happened to you, too?” she said. “The Druids—they can speak in your mind using magic?”
Merlin nodded.
“Then we’re close.”
“Hold on,” said Gwen, “have you always been able to—I mean, could you speak to each other like that?”
Before Merlin could answer, a force of magic hit him like a gale—heartbeats, footsteps, laughter—all at once. It left him winded; he gasped, stumbling back and nearly tripping over a knot of roots. Arthur caught him by the elbow.
“Merlin?”
“Are you alright?” Gwen said.
His senses were overwhelmed.
“I’m fine.” Merlin caught his breath as Arthur gingerly released him. The forest was sharper now. He saw a pair of crossed trunks, growing together, and fixed himself in that direction. “I know where the Druids are.”
Morgana grinned wider than Merlin had seen since the pyre.
*
Their party trekked along, descending a weedy hill where young trunks were supple and sprouting, following that sharp sense of magic, and the voices Merlin could hear. They’d just reached the bottom of a slope, where they found denser wood, when a group of people emerged from nowhere—springing out of bushes and from behind trunks. Rustling overhead made Merlin look up, and several of them were in the trees, watching.
As it happened, they didn’t find the Druids—the Druids found them.
Oh good, said a glib voice in Merlin’s head, Druids!
Beside him, Arthur shifted uneasily. There had to be at least twenty: most of them adults, although a few youths perched higher in the trees, on branches so thin they should have snapped. They were cloaked in brown and green, distinct of face, expression, and posture, and though none of them appeared armed, Merlin’s party came to a halt. They weren’t being threatened, but they were surrounded, and Arthur’s sword was drawn but not raised.
No one spoke.
Okay, Merlin thought. He’d speak first.
“Er—hello.”
A Druid woman nearest them put her hood back.
“…Hello,” she said. “What is your business here?”
She was tall, graceful, with long hair in several braids, and eyes that reminded Merlin of arrowhead leaves. She scrutinised Arthur… recognising the richness of his doublet? Of his sword, which could only have come from a royal forge?
Morgana came forward. “My name is Morgana,” she said. “I seek refuge with the Druids.”
“I recognise you,” said the woman, but she wasn’t talking to Morgana. In fact, she barely glanced at her before deciding she wasn’t as important—or perhaps wasn’t as dangerous—as Arthur. “You’re Arthur Pendragon—the King’s son.”
She eyed his sword, his stance, his bearing, like he might lunge at her.
Arthur stiffened. “That’s… yes, that’s true.”
“And commander of his army.”
Sheath your sword! Merlin thought. He didn’t.
“Arthur’s a friend,” Morgana said, but the woman wasn’t listening. And Merlin realised… he was an idiot, wasn’t he? He was an idiot not to have thought this far—to have brought Arthur right to these people.
What if they refused to take her in? Then what?
Ealdor? But—no—Merlin had left there for exactly this reason: his magic. So then… so then…? Then a voice, in his mind. Sudden, sure, impossible to ignore:
« Hello, Emrys, » said the voice. And Merlin recognised it: the Druid boy.
Merlin cast around for the source, and a small hooded boy in pale blue showed himself, climbing out of a shrub. Even the other Druids looked surprised to see him interrupting.
“Mordred,” said the Druid woman. “What are you doing here? You should be back with the other children—”
“I came to greet Morgana,” Mordred said, unaware of the tension he was walking into. He added, “And Emrys.”
He smiled at Merlin, and it changed his face: lit up his unnerving eyes. But as he ran to Morgana and hugged her, the Druids all followed where he was looking, and Merlin had too many sets of eyes on him.
“…Emrys?” repeated one of them.
“Hold on,” Arthur said, “what does ‘Emrys’ mean?”
“This is Emrys?” said another Druid. “He’s a boy.”
“Merlin, what are they talking about?”
“Er… I…”
“He’s with the Pendragon heir,” said yet another.
“Everyone—peace,” said their leader, raising her voice. They hushed.
Morgana, startled but not displeased, had Mordred at her hip when the woman finally addressed her, only after waiting a moment.
“It seems Mordred trusts you,” she said, and sighed. “So, explain yourself. Tell use why you’ve come.”
The Druids were sharing furtive glances; Merlin could hear their murmuring, muffled like he was eavesdropping through a door and couldn’t make out the exact words. But they were talking about him—about Emrys—and he wished he knew exactly what they were saying.
Morgana couldn’t seem to hear it.
“I was the King’s ward,” she said. “But that was before I discovered my magic. I… have visions, in my dreams. And sometimes, I break things, or set fires with my mind. It’s magic. And—and when the King found out, he sentenced my execution.”
“And yet you live.”
Morgana nodded. She looked back at Gwen, communicating something Merlin couldn’t decipher, other than that it was tender. And Mordred, standing like he was attached to her, took Morgana’s hand.
“I escaped with the help of my friends,” Morgana said. “The King was deceived—he thinks I was killed.”
“And his son?”
“He hasn’t come here for violence. I wouldn’t have escaped without him.”
The Druidic buzzing turned away from Emrys—Merlin couldn’t have said how he knew. It took on a suspicious tone. They still weren’t convinced about Arthur, and Merlin started to wonder just how much sway he had with the Druids as Emrys.
“All I want is to be safe,” Morgana said, “and to learn about what I am.”
A voice came from the trees—
“I remember you.” One of the Druids dropped from the branches and took down his hood. Gwen startled. He’d landed on his feet, and stood up: a young man—just come of age—with freckles and a strong nose.
“I was with Aglain’s group when they took you in, before,” he said. “Because of you, we were attacked by soldiers of Camelot. Those of us who survived are still—”
“That wasn’t Morgana’s fault!” Arthur said. He’d raised his voice, commanding attention, and he got it—from everyone.
“No,” said the Druid youth, pivoting his target. “It was yours, wasn’t it, Pendragon?” He seemed all too pleased to be redirecting his anger towards the Prince of Camelot.
Arthur straightened. Merlin could see his pride slashed plain across his face, but the stakes. They needed these people to help, or Morgana had no chance…
In what appeared to be a split-second decision, Arthur threw down his sword, and stuck it in the ground, then knelt. Merlin’s jaw almost dropped.
“I take responsibility,” Arthur said. “And I apologise. I led that raid on my father’s orders, but I confess—it was… was senseless violence.”
“An understatement, Your Highness,” spat the Druid youth. “Your men hurt innocent people. They threatened my sister.”
“I would do all in my power to make that right.”
The Druid approached Arthur, still prostrating himself. Merlin was shocked—he couldn’t remember if he’d ever seen Arthur show such humility, as the Druid scowled at him like he was preparing to strike retribution. It flashed in Merlin’s rapid imagination: a ruthless kick. Arthur with a bloody nose. He’d raise his sword, and there would be screaming, and the Druids would scatter, and—
As if called by a voice, the Druid youth straightened, and looked at his leader. Mind-words buzzed indistinctly in Merlin’s head, and finally he clenched his jaw and stalked away from Arthur.
Arthur: stubborn or composed—Merlin couldn’t tell which.
“I ask for your pardon,” he said, and looked up at them. “I see now that there is much I’ve yet to learn about magic. The Druids are a peaceful people, and you have been wronged by my father’s laws. I see that. I know it. And when I’m King, I will change the laws to make you free once more.”
A ripple of surprise went among the Druids.
“You would swear to this?” said the Druid leader. Merlin reeled at how well-spoken that had been, produced from thin air.
“I would,” Arthur said.
Another ripple, like wind through trees. Perhaps they’d expected arrogance and force. You will harbour Morgana, or else—
« They are deciding, » Mordred said, then there was a long, unnerving silence, the Druids buzzing mutely again in Merlin’s mind. Mordred was clutching Morgana’s hand so tight that his little knuckles were turning white. Meanwhile, Gwen was looking at Arthur with a breathless kind of hope. Merlin had never seen a look like that directed at a man on his knees.
At last, the Druid leader addressed them, with poise sharp as an axe.
“No needed change will come from stubbornness,” she declared. “We believe you, Arthur Pendragon. Morgana, you will be safe with us.”
Merlin hadn’t realised he was holding his breath until he sighed in relief.
“Thank you,” Arthur said. “You have my word: when I return to Camelot, I will do everything I can to protect your people.”
This is it, Merlin thought, a revelation. A promise of massive change in Camelot. He exchanged a look with Gwen, and an understanding slotted into place: sure, Arthur could be a prat, but this was what his golden kingship would bring.
“My name is Alani,” the Druid leader said, offering Arthur her hand. He took it, rising. Alani regarded him, then Morgana, Merlin, and Gwen. “Come back to our camp. We’ll eat together before you journey back to the city.”
“Thank you, Alani,” Morgana said. “I’m in your debt.”
“No,” Alani said, “this is friendship.”
A warm spring wind carried a flight of cottonwood fluff through their meeting, and Mordred must have said something to Morgana in her mind, because she looked down at him and barked a sharp, scandalised laugh. The two of them were… charming.
Gwen went to Arthur’s side.
“You spoke so well, just now,” she said. Merlin thought Arthur may have blushed.
“Thank you, Guinevere.”
Alani gestured to her Druids, and they began slipping down from the trees, grouping up to walk back to their camp. Hand in hand, Mordred and Morgana followed them. Mordred, exactly like any other ten-year-old child Merlin had ever seen, was running with a skip. He looked back, beamed.
« I’m glad to see you again, Emrys, » he said.
Merlin thought of the Dragon’s prophecy—Morgana and Mordred united in evil—but looking at this: Morgana, easy and graceful, and Mordred childishly giddy, that warning seemed ridiculous.
*
“Oh god,” Morgana said, “don’t cry.” But she was being a hypocrite because she was crying, too.
Her arms were around Gwen, who laughed at her as they pulled apart, thumbing a tear off Morgana’s cheek. Even teary-eyed, Gwen was radiant. They held hands, and Gwen squeezed hers, and she tucked the memory away for later.
“Be well,” Gwen said. “Look after yourself.”
Morgana was in Druid clothing: a queenly gift from Alani. Nothing a courtier would wear.
It was late afternoon, and Arthur, Gwen, and Merlin were preparing to leave at the edge of the Druid encampment. Morgana was hugging them one by one, not wanting to let go. Getting to the end of the line, she would start again and re-hug the first person.
“You, too,” Morgana said. It was Arthur’s turn, next.
Facing him, a memory came to her from long ago: they were both very young, and Morgana had run away from her minder, who was trying to brush and braid her hair. She’d been picky as a girl—and the lady’s hands were rough. She’d hidden in one of the turret rooms, where Arthur had found her. She thought he would scold her.
I am being terrorised, she’d begged, by a madwoman with a comb.
But Arthur frowned—his little face wrinkling up—and said,
Come, I’ll show you somewhere better.
He took her hand and led her to the stables, avoiding the servants, and both of their tutors, and he brought her to the warm company of horses. Later, it was the first place she went when she wanted to be alone. This was her earliest memory of loving him.
In the present, Arthur held her gently by both shoulders. He kissed her brow again.
“Stay safe,” he said.
“Thank you, Arthur,” she said, “for everything.”
Her last goodbye was for Merlin.
She wished, now that she knew they were the same, that they’d been closer. She wanted to keep his secret safe, like he’d done for her, and it made her sad to think he was going back to Camelot just to hide, so close to danger.
“Will you be alright?” she said.
Merlin had the irreverence to laugh. “What—me?”
“Yes, you,” Morgana said. “It’s Camelot. You’re a sorcerer.” But warmth melted across his face.
“I’ll be alright,” he said, and looked at Arthur like he was looking at a post-storm sunrise.
They hugged. She thought of birds in the winter.
“If you ever need anything,” he said, “send word, and I’ll come to help.”
“The same to you,” Morgana said.
They released each other, but only after a long time.
The Druid camp was pitched with braided ropes and dyed cloth-ribbons. There was no silk here, no velvet. Here were plant-stem motifs self-stitched into collars, mismatched buttons. The air was fragrant with roasting fruits. It felt like starting anew.
Soon, her friends set off. They went back down the path they’d come, weaving between trees and logs, going through knee-high clovers. She watched Arthur’s carmine doublet, Gwen’s rose-pink mantle, Merlin’s unique swaggering gait. They turned the bend, and she could see them no more.
A hand touched hers. When she looked down, there was Mordred. He moved silently—she hadn’t even known he was beside her.
« Follow me, » he said, in her mind. It was the warmest, lightest touch, sharing space inside her head. « I want to show you something. »
Morgana smiled, and let him lead her back towards the others.
*
They were standing on a green hill: Merlin and Arthur. Morgana, and the Druids, were hours behind them. Hopefully, by now she would be laughing with Mordred, learning to settle into her new life. As for them? They were on the way back to Camelot.
Arthur had been mumbling about having to hunt something. After all, he was supposed to be on a hunting trip, and it would do to come back with something to keep up the ruse. But even if he didn’t, everyone would understand that his trip was for grief, not joy.
Gwen had wandered off from them a few moments ago to refill their waterskins in a stream they’d just passed, and Arthur had grown quiet—contemplative. The valley below reached out in an ocean of swaying stems. Two small trotting dots meandered in the grass: their horses, awaiting retrieval.
“I don’t understand why it had to be this way,” Arthur muttered. “My father was so scared of her magic. So certain it would lead her to… to corruption.”
He wasn’t really looking for answers, but Merlin said anyway,
“Uther thinks… that what she is, is wrong. Monstrous.” He could tell that pained Arthur. “There was no changing his mind.”
“She’s not. I know her heart.”
Merlin mm’ed in agreement.
“And what about me?” Merlin said. “Do you think I’m a monster?”
Arthur appeared stormy, wary, guarded. Maybe he wanted to say, yes. Maybe he wanted to say, how long have you been hiding? Maybe he wanted to say, why are you coming back to Camelot with me instead of staying here with Morgana?
But he didn’t say any of that. What he said was,
“Merlin, the only thing you’re monstrous at is serving. You do know my chores are supposed to be done daily?”
Merlin scoffed and rolled his eyes, let them lapse back into silence. Samaras whirled by, falling from above, swept by the breeze. One of them caught in Merlin’s hair, and he picked it off and tossed it aside. It spun on its way down.
“What did the Druids mean,” Arthur said, “when they called you Emrys?”
Right. That. Merlin sighed. This whole Emrys thing still felt vaguely ridiculous to him. He was Merlin—that was the name his mother had given him, and it had been his own for years. Emrys, on the other hand, was another glamour he might wear if he found its use. And he hadn’t yet. But how could he explain any of that to Arthur?
“Er… yeah,” he said. “That’s… it’s—one of my names, I s’ppose. My Druid name.”
So says the Great Dragon, under the castle, whom you don’t know I speak to.
“You have a Druid name?”
“It’s hard to explain,” Merlin said. “There’s a lot that I’ve never told you.”
“I’ll say,” Arthur said. He arranged his arms stiffly, crossing them over his chest. Then… “But we have a whole trip back, for you to come out with it all.”
Yes, they did.
“Yeah,” he said. “I suppose.”
Merlin watched him for a reaction, and couldn’t tell how tall a climb this would be. The forest of swaying trees hushed and whispered at their backs.
“Right.” Arthur adjusted his sword-belt. “Might as well start now. You’ve been a sorcerer since you were a boy?”
He hadn’t expected Arthur’s immediacy, and almost laughed, then didn’t.
“Yeah,” Merlin said. “Since I was born.”
“Since I was a boy, my father has maintained it’s not something you can be born with,” Arthur said. “It’s… a practice—a discipline.”
“Well—yeah. It’s that, too. But… not just that.”
“No?” Arthur said, not combative—curious.
“There’s a lot to it,” Merlin said. “I’ve got a book, at home. I’d… be happy to show you, if you’d like.”
“Lord help me,” Arthur said. “I’m about to make you my teacher.”
Merlin snorted. “Right, well, I’ve been trying to teach you a thing or two since I arrived.”
“Oh, really? Like what?”
“Humility,” Merlin jabbed. Arthur only laughed. Sometimes he laughed like he’d forgotten he was supposed to be a prince, and Merlin his insolent servant. He laughed like they could’ve been friends growing up—hauling grain together and riding Old Man Simmons’s stolen wagon down pasture hills, hollering the whole way.
“You try getting on your knees in front of thirty forest creeps,” Arthur said. “If that’s not humility, I don’t know what is.”
He had to give that one to Arthur. Merlin nudged him.
“That was pretty brilliant to see, actually,” he said.
“Oh, don’t start, Merlin.”
“No—I mean it,” Merlin said. “You were inspiring.”
Arthur squinted at him, judging if he was being sincere. He relaxed when he saw Merlin wasn’t going to mock him.
“Really, though,” Arthur said, settling. “There’s got to be someone to teach me about these things. Someone wise. It seems only right I should learn. Especially now.”
“Sorry,” Merlin said. “You’ve just got me. Do you trust me?”
It was supposed to be a joke, but like before—in the dungeons—it fell out too sincere. Arthur regarded him like he might place the weight of an entire kingdom into Merlin’s foolish hands, if only Merlin could find the right words. But he hadn’t yet.
“You know what, Merlin?” he said. “I do.” And he looked so genuinely concerned that Merlin started to laugh.
Gwen came up the hill, and smiled once she saw they were laughing.
“What’s so funny?” she said.
“Oh, nothing,” Merlin said, and Arthur shoved him hard enough that he nearly fell over and rolled down the hill. He stumbled, and shoved Arthur back, but didn’t manage to move him at all. Gwen rolled her eyes, passing out waterskins. They all drank.
Cold water dripped down Merlin’s chin; he wiped it away with the back of his hand, thinking that their party felt lonely without Morgana. One short. But Merlin believed they would see her again.
“What are you going to do once we get home?” Gwen said, corking her waterskin. Arthur gazed long at her, then out at their path, though they were too far from Camelot to see anything of the castle.
“I’ll consult the council, when we return,” Arthur said. “That’s the first thing.”
“And the next thing?” Merlin said.
“I don’t know, Merlin.”
“But you will,” Gwen said. “We’ll find the way together. We’ll bring Morgana home.”
Arthur looked at her like she was an apple tree in full blossom, and so far from the court, no one was around to see his adoration. She leaned in and kissed Arthur’s cheek; he actually blushed, and Merlin snickered.
Arthur’s cheeks were still pink as he looked over at the horizon, and after another moment, another deep breath of spring air, they started again for Camelot.